


Godsworn

by vanessa_cardui



Category: Original Work
Genre: Devotion, Extra Treat, F/F, Masks, Penance - Freeform, Post-Apocalypse, Religion Kink, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 09:42:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12578928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanessa_cardui/pseuds/vanessa_cardui
Summary: The godsworn serve at the pleasure of the priests.  Godsworn Tisac's service had never been much of a pleasure to her, though, until she met the priestess Mira pursuing a vision from her goddess.





	Godsworn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Irusu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irusu/gifts).



There was something moving in the graveyards south of the University's walls. Tisac had just been accepted into the service of She Who Weaves, and she still wasn't used to the way her hood sat, the weight of her cloak on her shoulders, or with the weaver's mask. But she'd worn her armor for seven years before she'd been accepted as a godsworn, and she'd carried fighting chains longer than that. Tisac moved through the shadows near the walls, behind the broken tombstones and the collapsing mausoleums, headed toward the movement that she'd seen.

The graveyards were sacred to the Silence; only the godsworn and the priests were supposed to set foot there. Which didn't mean that the godsworn and priests were always actually the only ones there. People from the Paupers Quarter would come looking for rings or buttons, brought up from the graves of the long dead, and witches needed gravesoil and corpse flowers. And then there were the things that rose from where they had lain, whose names were known only to the Silence.

Those sworn to She Who Weaves walked alone. That suited Tisac. Her chains were coiled around her forearms, and the weaver's boots were blessed with silence. She advanced, and her quarry did not spot her.

It was a person, a woman. She wore a homespun robe, and was walking past the headstones, slowly, examining each one. A looter, who had learned of a body that had been buried with its riches, or a witch who had consulted with demons as to what meat they preferred, and who had come to bring it?

When she was close enough, Tisac drew her sword. "You walk on sacred ground," she said.

The woman who she had been talking jumped, startled, and turned to face her. Tisac had been keeping behind her, and had not yet seen her face. She was shockingly pretty; blue-black hair and skin nearly as dark, green eyes and vivid red lips. And she wore the sign of the weaver at the shoulder of her robe. A priestess, or someone dressed as a priestess?

"Oh!" she said. "You startled me! I hadn't seen anyone at all, not even birds."

"My apologies," said Tisac. "But you should not be out here alone, elder sister. There are people who do not respect the sanctity of the place, and there are things which move beneath the ground here, in the secrets of the Silence."

The woman smiled. "But I am not alone; you are here with me. I had a vision from the Weaver, telling me to seek the resting place of Marteen Oh Leer; the graves beyond the walls are filled with ancient names. So, let us look for him together."

A priestess, then. Or someone who knew them well enough to feign the sort of focus that the priestesses had. Tisac bit back a sigh--the penances that priestesses could assign were best avoided. "My apologies, elder sister. Father of the Watch assigned me to patrol, so I cannot remain here with you. Please, talk to the Father of the Watch, so that he may assign you guards, and so you may continue your search for the object of your prophecy."

"Oh dear," said the priestess. "You're being extremely formal, which means that I've done something stupid. I'm Mira, by the way."

"Tisac. And not foolish; you're seeking a vision of the weaver. But once you leave the walls of the university, there are real dangers which surround you. I don't know if--"

The only warning she had was a faint crunch of gravel, and the hint of decay in the air. It was sufficient. Tisac turned, her chain uncoiling from her left hand, striking, as she whirled her right hand back, right hand chain carrying her weight with it. Weight at the end of the first chain the revenant, and the weight at the end of the right hand chain gathered force from wrist and elbow and shoulder and back; it hit the side of the thing's head, and it shattered at the force of it, bones and tattered finery and rusted weapons falling to the ground in a clatter.

"Blessed Weaver," said Mira softly. "I had thought it was only looters. Well."

"Well, elder sister."

Mira shook her head, looked at the destroyed revenant. "We'll go to the Father of the Watch when I am done. But there is the word of the Weaver in my mind, and I have to answer it. You know?"

Tisac didn't know. She was godsworn, not a priest. She didn't hear the words of the weaver in her mind, she didn't know what the weaver wanted, beyond what she was told. But she could hear the need in Mira's voice. "Will it take long?" she said. "You would be better off with two or three guards, if we run into a pack of looters, or if something stronger comes from beneath the ground."

Mira laughed. "You can't tell me there are stronger godsworn than you, not after that. It was . . .I. . . please?" she said.

"Yes, elder sister," she said, and the two of them went together through the graveyard, Mira looking at the headstones, trying to puzzle out the inscriptions, while Tisac walked beside her, her eyes on everything and anything, trying not to be distracted by Mira, by the way she looked when she walked, by how intensely she studied those graves, by the single flower she had twined in her hair, a night blossom that she must have picked from the temple gardens, but which had somehow remained open and fragrant in the sun, dark red and black.

It wasn't easy. And finding the grave of Marteen Oh Leer wasn't easy, either. It could be that Mira was as distracted as Tisac, though that was too much to hope. More likely, the tombstones were crumbling, and the footing was unsteady. Two other revenants came after them, and Tisac shattered them both, going in harder than she might have otherwise; it could be that she should've been more careful, but each time, Mira was obviously impressed.

Tisac had not distinguished herself by her devotion to the Weaver, or by her skills at healing the sick, or her attentiveness to her duties. But there were not many in the ranks of the godsworn who could match her strength for strength, with sword or fighting clubs or bare hands. And whether or not Mira knew that, she was certainly impressed; after each attack, her eyes widened, and Tisac could see the flush of fear, high in her cheeks.

Mira was a priestess of the Weaver, and Tisac was sworn to the Weaver. It was her duty to protect Mira with her life, and for once, she was happy to take on one of her obligations.

In addition to being a priestess, Mira was a scholar; she had been studying in the university, and knew how to read in three ancient scripts, as well as in modern tongues. As far as Tisac was concerned, the old graveyards were a hazard, and nothing more, but Mira could see names and ages, little stories about how long people had lived, who their families had been, in the crowded and mottled stones.

And in the end, they found the grave of Marteen Oh Leer--according to Mira, "Martin O'Leary" in the old characters spelled something close to that, and Tisac believed what Mira told her.

The tombstone had been pulled loose by the roots of a massive and twisting old oak, whose acorns were a glossy black. It was hard to say where the grave had originally lain, and Mira's vision told her to find the resting place of Marteen, not his headstone.

They looked at the tree, together. "I'm pretty sure I'm not going to be able to rip that out of the ground," said Tisac. "I mean, if you want, I'll try, but I wouldn't expect too much."

Light danced in Mira's eyes, and from the creases in her chin, it looked like she was trying to suppress a laugh. "We were told to trust in the strength of the godsworn," she said. "But I am not sure that we were supposed to trust quite so thoroughly. But let us reason together. I was told to seek the resting place of Marteen Oh Leer. In the olden days, there were so many people in so many places, there could be a Marteen Oh Leer in some ruins below the seas, or up in the mountains, or out in some wilderness, known only to the Rider of the Wastes. But when I cast the leaves, they sent me here, to the graveyards beyond the walls, and they brought me to you, who . . . well."

"Well?"

A barely suppressed smile. "Well, let us look here, and see if we can find something that the Weaver wished for me to see."

There was a tree, and there were acorns, and a layer of fallen leaves. There were also broken corners of stone, chips of glass and ceramic. Ten thousand different things, or nothing. Tisac also had no idea what the Weaver wanted her priestesses to see. She had learned the creed of the Weaver, how she sat and took the threads that were spun, and turned them into something greater than they had been. And while Tisac had worn the Weaver's Web since she was a girl, and while she had memorized the visions of the Weaver, and her deeds, she had never understood them.

All the prophecies had the ring of truth to them, but there were some which seemed just, and some which seemed kind, and others which showed priorities beyond the grasp of human understanding, or which seemed twisted and cruel. Zerai had seen the world on a robin's egg, and Eladad had known to raze the city of Ember when a cat came to him, and put the hand of a child's doll into his hand. It could be anything; a sprig of oak leaves, a sliver of ancient metal, somehow preserved from rust and age. Or--

"What's this?" she said, and Mira was by her side, looking at what Tisac had spotted, protruding from one of the oak's branches.

"A key, it looks like," said Mira, running her finger along the tree's bark, where the small bit of gold poked out among the sprigs of oak leaves. "Can you get it loose?"

Tisac looked around carefully, making sure that they weren't being stalked by a looter or a revenant. If she allowed herself to be distracted from the dangers of the place, the Father of the Watch would rake her over the coals, and the priests of the Weaver would assign her a penance that would come near to breaking her--the rack and the lash, or the spider, or the three pears. And if Mira was hurt because of her inattention. . . but there wasn't anything. there was a breeze through the gravestones, turning the leaves one way and another, and the whit-wh-wh-wh-wh of the whippoorwills calling in the graveyard thickets. 

The key wasn't hanging from the branch. It was embedded in it. When Tisac tried to jostle it loose, it didn't move at all. And it was an old branch, heavy, moss covering the rough bark. She drove one of her knives into the wood, cutting through moss and bark and wood, and pulling the key loose from the split wood.

It wasn't gold, exactly. It was some old time metal, golden and shining bright, but lighter than gold should've been, and faint patterns flashed across the surface when she held it up to the light. Mira's eyes widened as she saw it, and there was something there--a hope, a fear, a touch of the transcendent--that nearly broke Tisac's heart.

She held the key out, and Mira took it, reverently. Her hand was soft and warm, and Tisac shivered a little, just a little, when she took it away.

"This is an ancient thing," she said. "From the birth of the gods. This was . . . Marteen Oh Leer took this to his grave with him, and this oak has brought it up."

After handing the key over, Tisac had turned back to watching the graveyards. The sun had dimmed, as clouds piled up, taking on the aspect of He Who Speaks in Thunder. "Is there anything else here which you have to find?" she asked. She could see the sword of He Who Speaks taking form, see the clouds becoming his beard and hair, the lightning crackling in the empty sockets of his eyes. It would not be easy to bear the weight of the storm that was coming, but if Mira wanted. . . .

"No. No, this was what I was supposed to find." She looked at Tisac and smiled. "Well, this and you. Can you come back with me, to the university?"

"The Father of the Watch will need to approve," she said. The Father of the Watch had the rank of a priest of the Weaver, and he could overrule Mira, if she chose. And there would probably be consequences for having abandoned her patrol, even though she had been told to do so by someone with the authority to give her orders. That was the nature of things. And worth it.

"Not immediately, I mean," said Mira. "I will have to pray to the Weaver for guidance, and consult with the hierarchs about what I am shown."

"Oh," said Tisac, who had never even seen a Hierarch.

Then He Who Speaks in Thunder stretched out his arm of storm-gray cloud, and the rain began; the two of them pelted back toward the gates of the university like children caught out in the rain.

#

As Tisac had expected, the Father of the Watch was not pleased that she had left her route to accompany Mira. If the Silence had decided to send an army of Revenants into Vale, she was supposed to be the city's first warning, and she had not been there to give voice. And it wasn't orderly, and the Father of the Watch wanted things to be orderly. He could not deny that Tisac had done what she had been required to do, so her penance was a light one--serving in the kitchens, rather than the rack or the whip--and she was allowed to retain the Weaver's mask while she carried sacks of grain up from the guardhouse to the kitchen, and then bucket after bucket of water.

It was decent work, and it helped clear Tisac's head. She had seen beautiful women before, certainly. And beautiful men, for that matter. True, none of them had been quite so splendid as Mira, and true, none of them had been as impressed with Tisac as Mira, and none of them had chins which would crumple up when they were on the verge of laughter. But she was a priestess of the Weaver, and she had a vision, and it had led her to a key from ancient times. That was the sort of thing that priestesses did, and Tisac was a godsworn, and godsworn served.

She hefted and carried, and she scrubbed down pots, until her penance was done, and then she returned to the Father of the Watch, hoping to be allowed to return to patrol. When she arrived at his chambers, Mira was already there, the key they had found worn on gold thread around her neck, just below the shuttle-loom of the Weaver.

He rose when Tisac arrived, which was not the welcome that godsworn were supposed to receive. "Elder sister Mira was asking of you," he said. "Do you wish to leave your service in the watch, to accompany her?"

"Yes," said Tisac. "Asked? But surely--"

Mira laughed. "Father! You did not tell her what this was about. Like I said, I had to talk to the hierarchs about this, and about my vision. They have given permission to pursue this thing, and for you to pursue it with me. After all, the godsworn serve at the pleasure of the priesthood."

There was a pause. Tisac didn't understand what Mira wanted her to say. "Yes?" she said. "At the pleasure of the priesthood. That's why. . . I mean, why do you need to know what I wish?"

"Well," said Mira. "The reports that the hierarchs have been given about you are good, but they do say that you think much of yourself, and that you need to be humble. And I am charged to enjoy the will of the Weaver as well as humbling others in her name and through her will, though that will be extremely difficult, under the circumstances. But you haven't done anything to deserve the penance, so you have to accept it. You see."

"No?" said Tisac, and there was that crumple in Mira's chin. "I mean, yes, I accept it, but I don't know what you . . . I mean, is this about the key, or is it something else?"

"It's the key and something else," said Mira. "There is a pattern on the key which I will have to match, I think. Or perhaps there is something else I am missing. But you know the penance of the three pears, and the humbling in service and all that?"

"Yes," said Tisac, who had been subjected to those more often than she cared to remember.

"Well," said Mira. "I enjoy making people go through those penances."

"Oh!" said Tisac. She couldn't look at the Father of the Watch, not when they were talking about things like that. Enjoying lashing someone, or putting the three pears into them? It wasn't something that Tisac would've thought that anyone could've enjoyed. And yet. And yet the thought of being lashed by Mira, or stretched out upon the rack by her, or. . .

Mira laughed. "As the hierarchs suggested, Godsworn Tisac was asked if she wished to leave her service in the watch, to serve at my pleasure, and she has assented. It may be that she will return to the watch when her duties with me are ended, but even the Weaver does not know the end of things at their inception; only the Silence knows, and the Silence does not speak."

"Very well, Elder Sister," said the Father of the Watch. "You served well in the Watch, Godsworn Tisac, and your service will be remembered. Go in peace, and if your thread is woven back into the watch, it will be welcomed."

She had served well? Tisac had patrolled well, maybe, but she had constantly been given penances great and small, for failing in her piety and devotions, and--

Mira grabbed her hand, and pulled her to the door, her eyes dancing with mischief. "Younger sister," she said, once they had left the Father of the Watch behind, "since you have been assigned to assist me in this thing, and in all things, you are to proceed with me into the university library, where I shall attempt to track down this pattern that I've seen on the key which you have found."

"Okay," said Tisac.

"And since I am charged with your spiritual development, and with humbling your pride, and since you are currently wearing the uniform of the watch, it seems that my first duty is to relieve you of the pride of your garments, to which you are no longer entitled."

Tisac took a long, shuddery breath. It wasn't unusual for penitents to suffer naked, or for nakedness to be penance. But it was different, when it was Mira telling her to get undressed, and when it was Mira looking at her, the way that she was looking at her.

Only there was a sudden closing of Mira's expression. "I mean, that is, it's more for my . . . if you don't want to, I can try something else, and--"

Tisac knelt, and unlaced her boot; Mira smiled. "Not the mask though," she said, as Tisac got undressed. "You are sworn to the Weaver, and I always wish to see that, when I see you."

It was wrong, but Tisac's heart fell a little at that. The priestesses didn't wear the masks; they wore the symbols, the shuttle and the weight, and so on--but, well. She was sworn to the Weaver, and Mira was a priestess of the Weaver; it was a beautiful mask, and . . . well, she was exposed enough, even though she still wore the Weaver's mask. Boots and socks and trousers and undershift and tabard; the stones of the watch house were cold under her feet, and the way Mira saw her, the way Mira smiled made it hard for her to think or hear, with her pulse pounding in her ears, and thrumming through every vein and artery.

Mira ran a finger down her arm, to where her fighting chains were still wrapped around her wrists. Tisac made a noise that was half yelp, half moan, and Mira laughed. "And the hierarchs hope that I will learn to enjoy this less!" she said. "But come. There is work to be done in the library, and then I will have another penance for you, after vespers, and before we take our meal."

"Another--"

"I shall let you choose between the strap and the pears," said Mira, and there was something wicked in her grin. "But now the library. I do not believe that we shall be attacked there, but you can read, yes?"

"The godsworn are all taught reading and writing both," said Tisac, who had found that an impossible chore, and who was now delighted to have been given it. "I may not read as quickly as a priest or a scholar, elder sister."

"Well," said Mira, headed toward the library. "If you do not perform properly, I shall chasten you. Now, as you are looking forward to a chastening regardless, you may not believe that matters. But I believe that it does."

It did. To be chastened because Mira wanted to see her suffer. . . that was something that she had never considered, but was now considering intensely, as she kept pace beside her, her bare feet slapping against the stones in perfect time with the clicks of Mira's bootheels. But to suffer because she had disappointed Mira? That was unimaginably worse.

The godsworn had been taught reading and writing, in order to give and receive orders, and to be able to report on what they had seen, even under circumstances when there was nobody to hear their reports. And while she had patrolled the stacks of the library, where the Silence lay, and things arose from between covers and amidst bookcases, Tisac had never had call to open those books, to see what it was that the library preserved of the ancient world, or observed of the world as it was.

There were endless rows and corridors, lined with books and scrolls, with covers of leather and fabric, or which were simply stacks of paper bound in string. And the whole place was echoingly empty. A few scholars drifted by, here and there, in their purple fringed robes, but mostly it was books, and bookcases, tables and chairs and reading lamps, quiet and still. Some of those scholars knew Mira; Tisac could see that by their smiles and nods, the quick snatches of conversation.

And while Tisac had endured penances naked before, it was different, when it was because Mira enjoyed that. Some of those scholars recognized that well. There were sidelong glances at her, and then knowing smiles for Mira, answered in kind.

Tisac would fight when asked, even against creatures of the Silence, or monsters of the void below, all gaping fangs and poison. But she could not help shrink from those glances, could not help turning and blushing, her toes clenching against the stones of the library floor. And Mira did not miss that.

"First," she said, "You can see how someone might enjoy inflicting a penance of this sort, can't you?"

"It isn't my place," said Tisac, weakly.

Mira reached out, her hand cupping Tisac's breast, thumb tracing an arc that crossed Tisac's nipple. Tisac gasped, gave a full body shudder. "No?" said Mira. "Well, perhaps we shall research what your position should be. And second, you will have to admit, this would be even more difficult, if you were a man rather than a woman."

"I. . . how so, elder sister?" said Tisac, trying not to think about what she had said, about positions.

Mira's laughed echoed from the empty balconies of the chamber where they had been walking. "Oh, my. You are that innocent? You have not observed how the male organ stiffens when they are as excited as you are, at this moment?"

"The godsworn serve at the pleasure of the priests," said Tisac. "I have served my elder brothers. But I don't understand what--"

Mira clicked her tongue. "Lean forward, then, godsworn Tisac. Brace your hands against that lectern? And legs further apart, thank you."

Tisac had shuddered at Mira's touch. Those shudders didn't stop as she leaned forward; there was a muscle in her left leg which was thrumming like she'd been running and had a cramp, or she'd stepped on some bit of old world machinery which sent a charge up--

Mira's fingers parted the lips of Tisac's pussy, and she came close to biting through her lip. Then Mira's fingers were inside of her, two of them, and she moaned, pushed back, feeling both light-headed and strangely desolate. "There, you see?" said Mira. "Here, turn around."

Tisac turned around, and Mira spread those two fingers apart. At least she was wearing the mask, so Mira couldn't see Tisac's blush at the thread of moisture that stretched between her fingers. Only she probably could, because she was probably blushing all the way down to her chest.

"If a man was excited as that," said Mira, "I could use his cock as a lectern." Then she started giggling, and Tisac was torn between laughing with her, and the way she'd felt a minute before, when Mira had put her fingers inside of her. It was very difficult to think straight.

"But there is time for that later," said Mira. "I left my preliminary notes . . . right. Here. This is the pattern I saw in the surface of the key."

It was a winding floral design, that looped around on itself, twisting as it turned. Tisac took a close look at it, and then Mira held up the key. Maybe it was there, in the shimmer on the surface of the ancient metal, half-visible, half-not, shifting as the light struck it. There wasn't any way that Tisac would've seen it if she hadn't been looking for it, and there certainly wasn't any way she could've copied it out like that, clear and perfect and beautiful.

"So, this is the section of signs of the Weaver from elder days, as well as histories and records that are connected to that research. So you are going to be carrying texts for me. And looking through them for me, because there is far too much for me to search on my own, and the Weaver has given me clues to lead me thus far, but no farther, so we shall have to trust to skill and diligence and if that doesn't work, hope for luck. Which seems to have been in good supply until now, but luck isn't something on which it is wise to rely."

"Right," said Tisac. "Texts. Yes. That's very. Yes."

Mira laughed. Not a giggle, not a chuckle, but a loud, long laugh, ringing off the bookcases and banisters. "Oh, I'm sure we'll get to very yes later. But now, it is drab and dull, and I will only distract you occasionally, when I'm too bored for words."

Which was something to look forward to, though it didn't take Tisac to get too bored for words. Or too bored by words. There were so many of them, in every book in that library. Old words, cramped words, written by some tiny mechanical hands, which made every letter look the same, and so small that they all ran together. And they never seemed to talk about anything; they would loop around and around, and mention this thing and mention that thing until it was like the pattern they were trying to find, where everything was connecting to everything else, but nothing ever ended or came to a conclusion.

And then Mira would distract her, from time to time. She always seemed to notice when Tisac's mind was drifting, because she would pinch at her nipples as a penance for her inattention, which would leave them painfully stiff, and leave Tisac breathing hard and utterly unable to think about anything at all, let alone the old-time text she was supposed to be puzzling through. Or, sometimes, she'd decide that she needed to wet her fingertips because the pages were so dry, and then she needed to dry them out, before she could handle ancient documents.

Which meant pushing her fingers deep into Tisac, to wet them, and then wiping them on her thighs and on the sides of her ass.

None of these activities helped Tisac focus on the research that Mira was doing. And it was far from a relief, when it was time for Vespers. Tisac knew that she was going to have to make a choice between the pears and the strap once the services were finished, and while she'd never liked either of those things, now both options seemed impossibly interesting.

Tisac kept losing her place in the plainsong, and mangling the verses of psalms. If the Father of the Watch had seen her at a Vespers like that, she would have been sent for a week in training and excruciation. Which ought to have been frightening, but now Tisac couldn't help but picture Mira grinning at her as she climbed the endless stair, or perhaps the touch of Mira's fingertips on the soles of her feet, as she was held in the penitent's cradle.

And Mira had not given her anything to wear at the Vespers. When the novices cleaned the worn wooden benches of the Weaver's chapel, there was going to be an embarrassingly sticky spot where Tisac had been sitting.

Mira had been sitting with the priests, not with the godsworn, and she seemed to be lost in the words and the service. And yet, when she noticed Tisac noticing her, there was a raised eyebrow, and a scrunched-up chin, which made Mira blush to the edges of her mask.

"So," said Mira, when the closing psalm was finally delivered. "Have you chosen?"

"Both, please, elder sister," said Tisac.

Mira laughed out loud, just as uninhibited as she had been in the library, for all that they were in the midst of the crowd of acolytes and priests and godsworn leaving the chapel. "There, you see?" said Mira. "If one approaches with the correct attitude, those who require penitence will seek it out, and be rewarded through it. Very well, younger sister. Both you shall have. Follow me to the penitents’ tower, and we shall administer the pears and the strap at once. But not all three pears at once. Two at a time, I think. But don't tarry, or I shall think that you are lacking in enthusiasm for the penances which you have chosen.

Tisac had been to the penitents’ tower before. She had not seen it as anything other than a place of pain, to be avoided. This time. . . the bath was as cold as it had ever been, shocking her when she stepped into it, like she'd dipped in a lake of liquid fire. But she had been naked ever since Mira had taken her from the Father of the Watch's office, and she needed to clean herself of the library's dust. And then . . . well, Mira had enjoyed looking at her before, but, well, she wanted to be clean for her. And ready.

Mira was ready for her, anyway. There were godsworn and novices in the cells which she had passed, seeing to their devotions, alone or under the attention of a confessor. And perhaps some of the men who were undergoing their penances did seem . . . well, it wasn't as though it could be used as a lectern, that wasn't true. But they did seem to be enthusiastic about it, in the way that Mira had said that a man would be, which was . . . Mira had told Tisac which chamber to find her in, and she rushed there to find her.

It was one of the larger penitent's cells. There was a cradle, and a false friend, and a coal fire in the corner, with a single thin iron laid in its heart. Tisac looked at the fire, and at Mira, who smiled at her. "Only if it becomes necessary. It would take a good deal of effort on your part to convince me to use it."

Tisac did not intend to expend any effort in that regard. Probably. Maybe not. It would depend. And Mira was strapping her to the false friend, whose iron arms locked shut around her, the top of its head fitting uncomfortably below Tisac's chin, forcing her to keep her neck up, as Mira pulled the false friend's legs apart, and Tisac's legs with them.

The pears were laid out on a table beside the fire, and they were warm from it. Not hot, but warm, almost like skin, but the iron was hard where skin was yielding. It was difficult, the way it always was, when Mira worked the first pear into Tisac's ass. The false friend held her in place, and Mira's fingers were gentle, and probing, and then firm, and the pressure on the pear was the same way. It wasn't forced in, the way the sergeants of the watch had forced it in when she'd failed in her duties by falling asleep, or failing to ask for the watchword, but Mira also didn't stop, wouldn't stop, not while Tisac felt like it was going to tear her open.

Then it was inside, and maybe the fullness she felt wasn't as oppressive as it had been because Mira had been careful not to tear anything when it had been going in. Or possibly it was because of how she felt? But that wasn't there, that was something. . . Tisac gasped, as Mira turned the screw that caused the pear to open up inside of her, spreading out, pushing her even more open. Two, three, four turns. And then another half turn, which was more than was normally done for a penitent.

Tisac was obscurely proud that she managed that, which was the opposite of what the pears were supposed to do.

"And now the mouth."

The pear for the mouth locked into the mouth of the Weaver's mask, and when that screw was turned, it held Tisac's mouth open, spread her cheeks apart, made it impossible for her to swallow; she had to lean forward over the head of the false friend, so that the drool would fall on the stones of the cell rather than choke her.

Mira stepped back to view what she had done, and Tisac did feel humble then. Only not as humble as she wanted to feel; she wanted to grovel at Mira's feet, to kiss them, to look up to her and to see her smile. Mira seemed to see that, even though Tisac's face was hidden by her mask, and her mouth was held shut by the pear. She smiled wide, and picked up the strap. "There," she said. "You see? More humble and prepared for discipline than if you were shouted at by a hundred sergeants."

She was.

Only there was a difference between thinking about the strap, and the strap falling on her ass, and on her back, and on her breasts. One was the idea of pain, the promise of it, something that was halfway to a caress. The other was actual pain, and whether or not Mira was as strong as Tisac, she was strong enough, and there was nothing half-hearted about the way she swung the strap. It hurt, and it wasn't as though Tisac could avoid any of that pain, held by the false friend.

But there was something about pain. Even as Tisac squirmed in her bonds, trying to escape each stroke as they came down, the pain drove thought and doubt from her mind, it grounded her in who she was, and it made her skin come alive, anywhere the strap hit. When Mira laid the strap down, she was breathing hard with the exertion, and so was Tisac, trying to get enough air to keep from getting light-headed, trying not to. . .

Mira ran her finger along Tisac's pussy, and it was like she was turning into water, held in solid form only by the grip of the false friend, by the iron and by the leather straps. She made an inarticulate noise through the pear in her mouth, through the iron-rust flavor of it.

"And that," said Mira, "sounds a good deal more humble than 'You should not be out here alone, elder sister.' Don't you think?"

Tisac very much did. But Mira wasn't talking to her. There was someone else in the penitent's cell with them. And while it had always been humiliating to be seen at a penance, this time, it was far more humiliating than that. But there wasn't anything that Tisac could do; the false friend held her in her pose, legs spread open, whether or not she wanted to close them, and Mira's hand hadn't left; it moved up her pussy, to the bridge of the arch, and Tisac twisted her head, tried not to scream or cry. It was too strong, too much.

"And it is your belief that godsworn Tisac is humiliating herself before the Weaver, rather than before you," said the other voice. A woman, older, someone accustomed to command, someone who Tisac didn't know.

"As it is taught," said Mira. "Humility is a virtue. And if the godsworn Tisac is in my service, she has to be below me, as I am below the Weaver."

"I see," said the woman, who did not seem convinced.

Mira gave a tinkling laugh. "Oh, but they are so much more pleasing when they are like this. Here; allow me to make adjustments, so that you can see . . . "

"I am not here to be pleased," said the woman. "I am here to learn what progress you have made."

"Little," said Mira. She released one of the catches on the false friend, which pulled it forward, and which forced to Tisac to follow, bent forward at the waist, legs apart, arms held at her sides. "I have confirmed that it was not a sigil of the interregnum, or of the famine years. There are some similarities with the pilgrim chains of the early church, and I intend to pursue that avenue tomorrow."

Her hand was cool on the back of Tisac's neck, as Mira's other hand undid the lock that held the pear in place in her mouth; Tisac knew that they weren't alone, knew that they were being watched, but she couldn't help the small sounds that she was making; wet and needy and . . . she didn't want to embarrass Mira, but she couldn't help it. When the pear came out, and Tisac's drool spattered on the stones below, she licked at Mira's fingers, which tasted warm and human, after that pear.

Tisac patted the side of her mask. "Soon," she said. "After you show the hierarch how improved you have become."

The hierarch? There was a hierarch of the Weaver there, watching her? Tisac froze. And then there was a pressure against her pussy, as Mira started to work the third pear into place. Tisac didn't hear anything except for the thrumming of her pulse in her ears, her half-uttered gasps and moans. The pear in her ass was spreading into the same place as the third pear did; she could almost feel them touching each other, nothing but a thin membrane holding them apart inside of her. And while the pressure in her ass hadn't been as unpleasant as it usually was, the pressure in her pussy. . . it was full, and it was locked full, and her pose was awkward, so that when she leaned forward, the pear shifted inside of her, just a little.

"The Weaver has chosen you for a vision," said the hierarch. "And you are--"

"The Weaver has chosen me," said Mira. "Which may be an indictment of how I have conducted myself, or which may be an endorsement. I do not know the will of the Weaver. But if it were not for godsworn Tisac, I would be dead, and the vision would be lost to the Silence, from where it would never emerge. The report of the hierarch is that godsworn Tisac needs to have less pride of herself. If you will allow her to pleasure you, while I administer loving chastisement, you may tell me if she seems more or less aware of her pride."

"Hm," said the heiarch. Then she stepped in front of Tisac, and tapped her at the side of her mask.

Godsworn served at the pleasure of the priests. As far as Tisac knew, she had never even seen one of the hierarchs of the faith, let alone served at their pleasure. But that didn't matter. What mattered was the liquid burning that she felt in her loins, the heat of her skin. And Mira's hand on her hip, the weight of the strap lying across the small of Tisac's back. When the hierarch pulled her skirt to the side, Tisac lunged as far forward as the false friend would let her go, immediately lost in the softness of the hierarch's skin, the faint, floral sweetness underneath the musky taste of arousal.

She moaned into the hierarch's pussy, licking and sucking eagerly, as the strap fell on her ass, and her hips and her thighs, welcoming the pain, all of it, from the strap, from her bonds, from the hierarch's hands, as they knotted in her hair. And when the hierarch was done, Tisac looked up to her, delighted that she seemed a little less confident, a little less disapproving; Tisac had done what Mira wanted, made Mira look good for the hierarch.

"It is not the manner in which penances are usually used," said the hierarch, when she caught her breath.

"No," said Mira, "But it is effective, isn't it?"

"Well," said the hierarch. "In a sense it is. But in another sense, that is yet to be determined. The Weaver's visions are to a purpose, and I wish to see that purpose fulfilled."

"Yes, eldest sister," said Mira. "We shall see to it."

"Good," said the hierarch, and turned and left, without another word. Mira patted Tisac's back, and Tisac all but purred at that. Then the pat became a scratch, as Mira used her nails, and Tisac shuddered in the false friend's grip, her leg spasming again, uncontrollably. "There isn't as much time left before the night meal as I had hoped," she said. "But before I indulge, let us use your mouth for words."

Mira laughed, long and hard, at the disappointed noise that Tisac made.

Then she took the iron from the fire, and Tisac's breath left her; if it weren't for the false friend holding her, she would have stumbled. The tip of the iron was the shuttle and the weight, iron so hot that it was white, a head the size of a thumb print. "It was an old custom to mark the godsworn when they took their orders," said Mira.

Tisac could feel the heat pouring off the iron, as Mira came closer. "Here," said Mira, touching Tisac's shoulder blade. "Or here," and her fingers lingered on Tisac's inner thigh. "Would you like me to mark you? As the Weaver's and as mine?"

"I. . ." Tisac didn't have an answer to that question. Then Mira's fingers drifted up to her pussy, and it was almost as though she had brought the iron down; Tisac was suddenly weak, suddenly sweating, suddenly pulling against her bonds, as hard as she could, and if the false friend had not been built to restrain people in the grips of agony, she would've broken loose.

"Yes or no?' said Mira.

"Yes!" said Tisac. "Please, yes!"

"Yes what?"

"Mark me, please, as yours, as the Weaver's, as. . . please!"

Mira clicked her tongue. "No. Not this time. Perhaps when you beg me for it with more conviction and less prompting. But I will give you this from me, and from the Weaver." Her fingers moved up to the arch of Tisac's pussy, and Tisac's eyes rolled back, as she tried to keep some sort of control, tried to keep from losing herself entirely. "Again?" said Mira. "Beg."

"Please," said Tisac, and it was as sincere a request as she'd ever made. "Please mark me, oh please, I can't, please."

"No," repeated Mira. "Now, come." She pushed down on the pears that were inside Tisac, making them shift, as her fingers slicked against the point of her arch, and Tisac fell apart in her hands. That was a thing that was not done when they were serving at the pleasure of the priesthood. But she had been told what to do, and she did it, gasping, shaking in the grip of the false friend, over and over and over, endlessly, until finally Mira let her go, returning the iron to the fire, as she let Tisac sag down in her bonds, and then collapse completely, after the pears were removed, and the straps loosened.

"Most humble," said Mira, grinning down at her. "You'll serve at my pleasure tonight, of course."

"Of course, elder sister," said Tisac, and though every muscle and every bone in her body was done, achingly done, she wanted to that right away. But instead, she had to drag herself up, still smelling of sex, hers and the hierarch’s, and sweat and suffering, she had to go down to eat in the refectory. Where Mira did not allow her to eat on her own--she fed her by hand, in the view of the other godsworn, as Tisac sat naked, her hands in her lap, blushing beneath her mask at every bite, at every brush of her skin. It was humbling, in a way that the most demeaning penance seldom was. She knew that they were all looking at her, knew that they all knew what she was going to be used for, and she was sure that everyone there knew just how much she enjoyed both of those things.

Priests of the Weaver had small rooms, without many furnishings. Even a priestess like Mira, who had visions from the Weaver, and who talked to the hierarchs of the faith. It wasn't the dormitories of the godsworn, anyway, and there was a bed there, just barely wide enough for two, and blankets woven by generations of devotionaries; strands of silk and wool and linen, producing something perhaps a tenth part as beautiful as Mira's thigh, or her ankle.

She was so lovely that it stopped Tisac's breath when she got undressed. If any other priest or priestess had made Tisac bathe their feet with her tongue, had taunted her by offering to allow her to lick at their ass, or to suck on their fingers, Tisac might have done it. The service of the Weaver was the only thing that she had, and she had devoted so much to it. But it would've burned; she would have hated them forever for that. This burned, but it burned differently, and she did not hate Mira for anything. When Mira finally allowed Tisac to serve at her pleasure, to lick at her pussy, to suckle at the point of her arch, to push her tongue inside of her--it was nearly enough to make her cry, and not at all from hate or from pain.

Mira tied Tisac to the foot of her bed with a length of woven silk, strong and light and smooth; Tisac settled there, as humbled as she had ever been, and as happy as she could remember. Was that what penances were? Was that was service was?

The next morning, there still was no clothing for Tisac. There was the service of lauds, and after a quick bite at the refectory, they were back in the quiet of the library. Again, when Mira grew bored, she would entertain herself with Tisac--a touch her, a bite there, and Tisac was a shuddering mess for what felt like hours afterward. But at the same time, Mira was serious about what she was doing, and while Tisac had always thought of herself as strong, she wasn't strong enough to sit and stare at tightly written pages, and nothing else. So she would sit beside her, and watch motes of dusts in the columns of light from the high windows of the library.

"Mira," she said. It had been bubbling up for a while, but she hadn't wanted to say it, because she didn't want to look foolish. But maybe it mattered. "I think I recognize that pattern."

"Oh?" said Mira, not looking up from her text.

"There was a railing in the church where I was a girl," said Tisac. "Before my mother gave me to the church, as a tribute for saving her from the crying fever. It had flowers like that."

"Like that how?" asked Mira.

"Lily and rose, lily and rose, lily, lily rose," she said. "I mean, that's not exactly what they are, is it? But it looked like that."

Mira closed her text. "Which railing was this? At the balcony, or--"

"It was in the back of the church," said Tisac. "It was very dusty, underneath broken chairs and worn-down prayer strips? It was the church on Yarrow Street and Break."

"I see," said Mira. "Well, let us see what we can find here, about the churches of the Pauper's Quarter, and if they have any wisdom for us concerning the church on Yarrow and Break, shall we?"

"I'm not sure about this, elder sister, but--"

"If you are wrong," said Mira. "You shall be chastened, and if you are right, you shall be rewarded. But if we waste time, I won't be able to do either of those things."

"Oh," said Tisac. "Then let's go see what the library has to say."

Mira laughed, loud and free, and led Tisac to the shelves that concerned the churches of the Pauper's Quarter. Mira read what the books had to say, and asked Tisac questions. About the church building, which turned out to have been rebuilt during the interregnum, but which might have had some of the older building remaining. The questions were about the church building, which Tisac didn't remember as well as she should, but also about her mother, about growing up in the Pauper's Quarter, where she'd learned to fight with fist and stick and fighting chain.

"Well," said Mira. "I shall have to speak to the hierarchs, but I believe that we shall be going together to visit this church, and see if the key which you found shall open the gate which you remember."

"Yes, elder sister," said Tisac.

"And under the circumstances, I believe that you shall have to wear clothing, which is unfortunate, but was bound to be required eventually. Very well. Go thou to the armory, younger sister, and select what you believe will be needed for your trip beyond the Silent Quarter, and I shall go to the hierarchs and seek likewise. We shall meet at the gatehouse, at Vows."

"Yes, elder sister," said Tisac.

Mira patted the side of her mask. "And I shall bring along some small tools of both chastisement and reward, so that you may meet your consequences immediately, and not have to spend too long dreading what is about to come."

"I. . . thank you, elder sister," said Tisac.

"Very good!" said Mira. "Perhaps the hierarchs will accept my improvements, in the matter of chastening those who need to be chastened."

Tisac didn't say anything. She didn't have Mira's experience with the hierarchs of the order of the Weaver, and she couldn't argue about the effectiveness of her methods. But it did not seem likely that the hierarchs would want the godsworn to be so focused on their elder sisters that they could barely hear the armorer when he talked, and had their hearts in their throats every time the door of the watch houses shifted even a little, when the wind rattled it.

When Mira finally did arrive, at precisely the time that she said she would, Tisac felt a little unsteady, she was so glad to see her. Not that she had been out of sight for long, and not that she had expected Mira to fail to show up, but maybe the hierarchs had given her something else to do, or maybe something had happened to her, when Tisac wasn't there to protect her, or maybe--

"You seem eager," said Mira.

"Well," said Tisac. "If you would rather remain in the Silent Quarter, and send a team of godsworn to Yarrow street, or even if you would rather bring a few additional godsworn along with you, that would be safer. The Pauper's Quarter is a dangerous place, and--"

"And I am certain that you shall protect me," said Mira.

Tisac sighed. "I will do what I can, and there are pious people among the gangs there. But I cannot fight an entire gang, and I would not rely on their piety to protect you from their greed."

"Greed?" asked Mira. "What do I have that might tempt a criminal? A sister's robe, a sigil in base metal--"

"And a key which you are wearing outside of your shirt," said Tisac, "which is made of an ancient metal, and which will be assumed to open the gate to a vast treasure, which you will probably lead them to, if they torture you sufficiently."

"Ah," said Mira. "So you would recommend tucking the key into my shirt."

"Yes, elder sister."

Mira's chin crumpled up, like she was about to start laughing. But she did put the key away, which was a comfort. "The difficulty is that while the hypostasisian churches are in communion with the hierarchs of the orthodox church, that communion is contingent."

"Hypostasisian. . ." Tisac had listened to a great many lectures on doctrine, and had not understood them at all. This sounded like one of the problems which, when she attempted to answer them, would end up with her locked in a penitent's cradle until all her joints seized up. "Contingent on what?" she said, grasping at something that she hoped that she understood.

"Contingent on there not being any particular advantage to withdrawing from that communion," said Mira. "Which means that if I present myself as bearing a vision of the Weaver, and carrying a key that may well unlock one of their reliquaries, they may decide that the relic is worth more than the opinion of the hierarchs as to how the visions of the Weaver are to be apportioned."

They were passing through the streets of the Silent Quarter. The long-empty buildings loomed up on every side, with the symbol of the Silence carved into every door and lintel. Not even rats or pigeons dared to cross those seals, going in. But there were occasionally things which crossed those thresholds going out. Tisac watched every door, as they passed it.

"I am not entirely sure what that means," she said.

"It's not that different from what you were describing," said Mira. "As I understand it, the gangs of the Pauper's Quarter take a somewhat less philosophically rigorous position than the hypostasisians, but if I present myself as having something that people want, they will attempt to take it."

"So what . . . I can't fight a whole church, elder sister."

"You almost could, though," said Mira. She put her hand on Tisac's shoulder, and even though Tisac was dressed, she shivered a little at Mira's touch, just as she had. "But I do not intend to ask that of you. We will go to the church, and I will deliver a sermon, after the prayers. Then I shall remain there for my private meditations, and you shall meditate with me. If it turns out that the symbols that you recall seeing are not present, your trip back to the comforts of the Silent Quarter will be rendered more difficult, as a form of chastisement. If you have led me to a completion of this vision, I will give you your reward, as soon as it is practical."

The gates to the Silent Quarter were always open, but seldom used. Mira strode through them, and Tisac followed, two steps behind, letting the links of her fighting chains show, trailing beyond her sleeves. There weren't any revenants, or things from the void walking the narrow, twisting streets of the Pauper's Quarter, but there were hungry, angry people; those dangers could be just as deadly, if she let her guard down.

It was the first time that Tisac had been in the Pauper's Quarter, since the priests of the Weaver had taken her in, accepted her oaths as one of the godsworn. They were smaller than she remembered, and dirtier, and the people there . . . well, she was seeing them from above, rather than below. But they still frightened her; the close faced men and women who sold this or that, or who stood in doorways, watching the strangers pass. The loose gangs of children, who watched them close, and kept pace with them. And here and there, the people with money, or with power, who moved with confidence, who accepted the courtesies of the others as if it was their due.

The church was just as Tisac remembered it. A great stone building, which had seemed impossibly ancient when she was a girl, before she'd seen the real antiquities of the Silent Quarter. Mira walked up to the great wooden doors, and rapped, twice, with an authority that was entirely unforced. After a few moments, sweating in the dusty street, hoping that the priest wasn't asleep or drink, he opened the doors for them.

It was the priest who had given Tisac's mother the cure for the crying fever, and who had taken her daughter from her in payment. He didn't recognize Tisac. He wouldn't; she had barely come up to his waist when he had taken her, and now she was a full head taller than he was. But he recognized Mira's shuttle and weights, and her robes of office. She explained that she had been set to walk the streets of the Pauper's Quarter, and to preach the truth of the Weaver in the churches there, and he believed her. And he agreed to give her the lectern, during the evening services, and afterward.

Mira took only a cursory glance at the church; she saw the lectern, and the pews, and the web of the weaver, but she didn't even look at the rear of the church, where Tisac thought the railing matched the pattern that Mira had described. Only now that she'd seen the church, everything looked different enough that she was starting to think that she'd been mistaken in the first place, and it was far too late not to check, but if she did check, they'd waste a little bit less time.

Once the priest had agreed to give Mira the lectern, they left, and Mira had Tisac pick out somewhere to eat. "Something different than what's served in the refectory," she said. "Something good."

It was the Pauper's Quarter, not the Merchant's Quarter, or the High Quarter. By local standards "good" meant "a lot of it," and "was not poisoned in an attempt to kill people and sell the corpses to the tanners." But even though Tisac had been gone most of her life, the Pauper's Quarter of Vale didn't change much, and there were some things that she remembered. An old woman, who looked exactly as old as she always had, selling beans and lentils wrapped in bread and fried, at the corner of Yarrow and Lean, boys selling boiled crayfish and roast starling in cones of paper. Mira had brought some coin with her from the Silent corner, and one of those blackened silver circles got her more than enough of all of that for both of them, and a pocketful of bronze and brass beside.

It was true that some of the boys had tried to ask for more for their starlings before Tisac had glared at them, but if Mira had shown the least bit of uncertainty about anything, they would've seen it, and come in through the cracks. But she didn't. And she didn't when she returned to the church, and took the lectern, behind the web of the Weaver. That was something else that Tisac remembered from her childhood. A maze of twisting iron that stretched across the rear of the church, in a pattern that drew the eye in and held it. That was what Tisac had thought the Weaver was, when she was a little girl.

To some degree, she still did. A mass of iron, going rusty at the corners, larger and more powerful and more fascinating than anything human. But also, now, a bit like Mira; calm and sure, and infinitely lovely and desirable, and impossible to understand. After the priest left, to start unlocking the side doors, Mira gestured underneath the lectern. Tisac came over, uncertain.

"There," she said. "On your knees. And I believe that I will be using your chains."

"Min. . . is this right, elder sister? It seems--"

"If it was sacrilege," said Mira, "it would have been a greater sacrilege within the precincts of the university, wouldn't it? This is the work of the Weaver, younger sister. Perhaps it feels like it shouldn't be, because it is pleasurable. But it is acquiring you for the Weaver, and it is no more a sacrilege than trading medicine for children, when the ranks of the voluntarily godsworn grow thin."

Tisac flushed beneath her mask, unlooped the fighting chains from her arms, and knelt where she was directed. Mira fastened her there, with those chains, and with locks she had brought with her from the university. Just two of them, but they held all the chains in place, pulling on Tisac's arms and legs and ankles and wrists, wrapped around her chest and thighs.

She had spent a great deal of time kneeling, when she had taken her instructions and penances, and it was never an easy pose to hold, not for as long as as going to be required. Then Mira stepped up to the lectern, and started arranging her lecture, and her foot went between Tisac's legs.

Tisac was still dressed, but the way her legs were spread out, there was only the thin cloth of her smallclothes between her pussy and the back of Mira's foot. Tisac gasped, as the straps of Mira's sandal rubbed up against her pussy, and Mira stepped back. "No," she said. "You are to be quiet while you are there. While I believe that the Weaver will endorse this course, I do not think that the parishioners will . . . well. You know this place, and these people. I will let you be the judge of whether or not they will allow me to retrieve you when they are done, if you are noticed."

The closed-faced men, the gangs, when they'd seen Tisac in the streets, they hadn't offered her any offence. Because she was strong, because she was wearing the mask of the Weaver and her tokens, and because the Weaver and her church were strong. If they found her locked beneath the lectern, helpless. . . it might be that they'd leave Mira what was left after they were done. Or they might see that as a sign of weakness on Mira's part, and whatever was left after they finished with both of them would be sold to the tanners.

It was. . . Mira's foot moved again, and Tisac had to fight back a whine. It was a dangerous, impossible demand, and she was going to meet it, and she was enjoying that it had been made of her, and she couldn't think, not really, not at all, here in this place which had been the grandest place she had known as a girl, and which she had all but forgotten, until she was reminded of it with every stone and every smell, and every leap and whorl in the Weaver's web behind Mira.

The congregation began to enter. Tisac could hear them filling in behind her, the shuffling of their shoes, their conversations--not the words of it, but the tones. Some of them were easy, comfortable, the sort of ease that they had in the Pauper's Quarter, and which they didn't have in the Silent Quarter, where things were as good or as bad as they were, but they weren't changing one way or another, and they'd had their small pleasures, and were waiting for others.

And then there was Mira's foot, and the screaming need inside of her, which had started growing . . . which had never stopped growing, not since she'd first seen Mira, not really. She couldn't make any noise at all, and she had to moan and plead and . . . it was very difficult to follow the hymns and the parables. But then came the time when Mira spoke the truth of the Weaver, and Tisac heard it. The old world laid low, the new world brought from its ashes, all woven with divine skill, so vast and perfect it surpassed all understanding. The joints of a cricket and the ear of corn upon which it sat, all woven from the same fabric, all weaving themselves according to the plan of the Weaver.

All of them, caught up in that web, spun at the beginning of things, even before the powers became manifest. All the other powers woven from the same cloth; The Rider of the Wastes and He Who Speaks, the Silence and the Counter of the Waves, She Whose Cloak is Night, and the Weaver herself, all made whole, all made in the weave, all as much a part of it and as caught in it as every length of iron wire in the Weaver's web behind her.

When the priest had spoken, Tisac remembered people listening, coming to kiss his fingertips when he was done, to request things from him, in the name of what he had taught them. But even in her memories, they had not fallen as silent then, as they had when Mira spoke the truth of the Weave. This was it, this was the real thing, and she was as caught in Mira's words as she was caught by her glimpses of Mira's long legs, pale brown and perfect, by the touch of her foot, by the things that she had done to her, by the way she had looked at her.

She waited there, beneath the lectern, as the closing psalms were sung, louder than she could ever remember. And she waited there, as Mira kicked lightly at her pussy, when the priest came to discuss doctrine with her, and to give her the keys, to seal the church after she was done with her meditations.

When he finally left, Mira unlatched the lock, and Tisac's chains spilled down to the floor around her, as she leaned forward, and kissed Mira's foot.

"Yes," said Mira. "Just so, younger sister. Now, let us see if you have earned further rewards, or further punishments. Of course, it will be both, in the fullness of time, but let us focus on the task at hand, hm?"

First, Tisac wound her fighting chains back around her arms. She had always trusted them, ever since they had been assigned to her, just after she had sworn to the Weaver, but after they'd held her like that, so hard that they surely had left marks everywhere, and left her joints creaking. . . Tisac still trusted them, but they were a little bit strange to her, just then, like an arm that she'd slept upon, and which felt heavy and strange before it woke up with tingling pain.

If she had earned pain, it would be as a reward, not as a punishment. The broken pews and decaying scrolls were stacked as she remembered them, and covered with enough dust that they might have been the exact pews and scrolls that she remembered. And behind them, the grating was the one that she'd thought it was--the same pattern that Mira had drawn, the same pattern that glistened on the shifting surface of that old-metal, golden key, which they'd pulled from the wood of the ancient oak.

"This is old work," said Mira, laying a reverent hand on the metalwork. "The whole section of the church is ancient. I hadn't thought that anything this old survived in the Pauper's Quarter, but . . ." She rubbed a section of the pattern with her finger. "This is different than what I saw on the key," she said. "Just here--the rest of it is the same, you're right, but this--"

She was right. Tisac's stomach did flip-flops at that. She was right, so she was going to be rewarded, but she wasn't sure if she could imagine something she wanted more than she wanted Mira's punishments. That iron, though. She had to beg for it, and didn't want to, and what would Mira say if Tisac asked for that as her reward? She'd be impressed, probably, and happy, and--

The grating clicked open, and Mira took the key from where she had pressed it against the iron bars. Tisac hadn't been paying attention to that, which was fine, but she also hadn't been paying close enough attention to the rest of the church. There were eternal flames in the corners of the church, low-burning, sullen things, which cast deep shadows in the empty church. If someone had been hiding in the shadows.

"Well," said Mira. "Come along then," she said.

The grating was a low one, underneath the choral balcony, which was only used on holidays, and rarely then. Mira slid in, through the gap that opened. "Wait," said Tisac, squeezing through after her. "You should let me go first," she said. "It might be dangerous."

"It might," said Mira. "But I'm not certain that the dangers of this place are anything that you can defeat with strength and fighting chains," she said.

The space under the balcony had been dark, when they came in, but it had been growing lighter, from nowhere and everywhere. "Nonetheless," said Tisac. "I am godsworn. It is my duty to protect you, elder sister. And it is your duty to allow my protection."

The stones beneath their feet were strangely slick, and there were symbols on the walls that Tisac didn't recognize. But in the midst of all of that, there was Mira's crumpling chin, and her laughing smile. But then there was a softness around her eyes which Tisac didn't recognize as well. "Very well, younger sister," she said. "Lead, and I shall follow."

There was a single door out of the chamber they were in. Tisac strode toward it, and it opened in front of her, showing a long corridor, with the same sourceless light, the same slick stone. Tisac let three loops of her right fighting chain loose, swinging past her arm. She didn't trust anything, but she said that she would lead, so she led.

The corridor stretched out, down, to a chamber decorated with sigils that Tisac didn't recognize, lines on the walls and lines on the floors. She waited there, letting the weight on her chain swing, just a little. If something showed itself, she would strike, quick as a wall-adder. Nothing did, for a long breath, and then for another. She looked back at Mira, who was watching her. "I don't see anything," she said. "If we're attacked, go back to the church. I'll hold as long as I can."

Mira smiled, but then it faded. "Yes, younger sister," she said. "Now, let's see what they had to say. It's not a launch facility, I don't think, but. . . oh."

She ran her finger along a series of sigils, pressing some, leaving others be. "This is older than I had thought," she said. "This is from the time when the powers were made manifest, and . . ." She pressed one of the sigils firmly, and Tisac had to step aside, suddenly, her fighting chains snaking loose, but with nothing to strike, as a column rose up from the floor below her, and a small golden coin floated in the air above it.

"What is it?" asked Tisac, softly, knowing she was in the presence of something sacred.

"It is an eulogia token," said Mira. "A gift. Take it, younger sister."

Tisac reached out, and touched the wafer-thin coin. Only it wasn't a coin, exactly. It was a bit of foil, really, in the shape of a coin. When she touched it, it adhered to her finger. Tisac tried to peel it loose, to see it, but she couldn't. It was beautiful, a mass of tiny lines and coils, all running together, like the web of the weaver. And then Tisac's hand picked the eulogia off her, and moved it to her chest, where it passed through her clothing, to settle over her heart.

She hadn't moved her hand, but her hand had moved. She gave Mira a panicked look.

Mira was watching her, and the glory of the Weaver was clear in her eyes. "What's happening?" asked Tisac, and her voice was thicker than it should've been. "Mira, elder sister, please, I don't understand, I don't--"

"It is the Weaver," said Mira. "It was how she was given form, when it was necessary for the powers to take form. It is the Weaver in you, and you shall be in the Weaver. Tisac, you are becoming a God."

The walls were closing in around her. Her legs were moving? Maybe? She couldn't feel them, couldn't . . . she fought for control of her hand. There was a pull against it from within, and a pull against it from without, as the weight of her chains pulled against her, tighter than Mira had fastened it.

Tisac had always fought hard, and she'd always won. If she hadn't won, she'd have been dead. She reached up, and she pulled her mask loose.

Mira stared at her. "What?" she said.

"I want you to see me," she gasped out, through a mouth that was changing, like she was trying to keep her head above a vast and empty sea. "You never saw me. I'm Tisac, Mira. I don't. . ." she couldn't cry; her tears were no longer her own.

"I can't see you," said Tisac, falling though she was standing in place. "But see me." And then, softly, sounding as broken as she felt. "I was supposed to get a reward."

And then she was lying on the floor, and Mira was frowning down at her.

"Mira?" said Tisac.

Mira sighed. "There are going to be complications," she said, cleaning a fleck of gold from her fingertips. "Oh, Tisac, I'm sorry."

"Sorry? But I was. . ."

"You did not wish to become an avatar of the Weaver, so I destroyed the eulogia of the Weaver. Which I told you to take, and which I probably should've . . . well, no use spending time on that sort of thing. We did what we were woven to do, after all."

"What we were woven? But the Weaver--"

"If the Weaver wanted the token to be taken," said Mira, "she would've given the vision to someone who would have been able to resist your charms," said Mira. "However, if we do not make our excuses quickly, and find somewhere to go other than Vale, it will indicate that the Weaver wished to see us branded as heretics and apostates, and treated to the needles at the fingers and elbows, at the start of our full disarticulation and execution."

Tisac gasped in breath, in lungs that were only just starting to feel like hers. "Thank you," she said.

Mira's chin crumpled. "You are welcome," she said. "And don't look so martyred. I have some coin, and one or two marketable skills. As do you."

Tisac slowly rose. "You don't . . . I've cost you the service of the Weaver, and--"

Mira laughed, free and loud, like always. "That is what the church tries not to talk about," she said. "You don't serve the Weaver. You follow the path she has woven. What matters is the joy with which you follow it."

"Oh." said Tisac, winding her chains back around her arms. "Well, can I still call you elder sister?"

"If you do not," said Mira. "You will be chastened."

It wasn't the service of the Weaver, not exactly, not as godsworn, and not as a Priestess. But it was . . . well, the time would probably come when Tisac was chastened. And perhaps at some point, Mira would mark her with an iron, or with some other tool. But whether or not it was marked, Tisac was sworn, and humbled, and in the service, as she had always been.


End file.
